


love, tempo rubato

by plumii



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Classical Music, Ambiguous/Open Ending, But I think it's happy, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Slow Burn, a certain manner of atsuhina, it's not bad at all I promise, kagehina is briefly mentioned, one(1) scene of implied sexy times
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-17 10:20:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29470080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plumii/pseuds/plumii
Summary: And even though Osamu was the one with the violin first, even though Atsumu spent his first two years with the little wooden thing producing noise pollution, he knows somewhere in his heart that the two of them are meant to be great.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu & Miya Osamu, Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 12
Kudos: 31





	love, tempo rubato

ru·ba·to

/ro͞oˈbädō/

MUSIC

_noun_

  1. the temporary disregarding of strict tempo to allow an expressive quickening or slackening, usually without altering the overall pace. From Italian, “robbed time.”



...

Winter 16

The broken radiator chatters loudly in the cold, the piles of clothes on its spine doing little to stifle the sound. A glass chime hangs still on the windowsill, flower prints on its surface faded and peeling from the once ruthless summer sun. It certainly isn’t summer anymore, not by any stretch of the imagination. Pulling his sheets off goosebumped skin and getting changed into the winter uniform simply isn’t worth it, Atsumu reasons, but before he can cook up a valid excuse for staying home and freezing there instead of in a classroom, he’s kicked onto the floor. 

Osamu glares at the twin-shaped lump groaning on the ground, and says something about _setting a good example for yer brother_ and _if I have to get out of bed early to make food for both o’ us, you can drag yer sorry ass to school_. Atsumu listens with half an ear, too busy trying to find the tie he swears was under the drawer yesterday. 

“It’s in the silverware cabinet.”

“Why’s it in the silverware cabinet?”

“I don’t know,” Osamu gripes. “I didn’t touch yer filthy tie, ya just have no spatial awareness.” The ‘ _idiot_ ’ that follows is barely a whisper, but as a twin, Atsumu is most gifted in deciphering whispers. However, Osamu is equally gifted at speaking in a volume only Atsumu is intended to hear, which means that he was totally being provoked on purpose. 

“At least I’m not stinky like you!” Being older by a couple minutes hasn’t put a single dent in his pettiness, and he’s slapped in the face by a tie for his efforts. Atsumu is forced to admit that it does reek a little bit, and that he probably deserved that. 

“Grab your food and get out of my sight.” It’s Osamu for ‘I love you, nee-san’, so Atsumu sends him a wink and a disgustingly obnoxious kissy face before slipping on a ratty pair of sneakers— they might have been Osamu’s, but at this point, there’s hardly anything they don’t end up sharing— and heading off.

… 

The silence borne from everyone’s avoidance of Atsumu is great for him. It really makes class a wonderful time for self-reflection, or maybe a nap. 

The teachers leave him alone too. He’s got that pronounced Kansai accent, and sloppily dyed hair, and more piercings than the dress code can handle. He’s got calloused fingers and bruised shins and a too-smug look, a no-good attitude and atrocious grades. The girl seated next to him scoots to the edge of her chair each day, careful not to touch the air in his general vicinity lest he somehow infect her with his delinquent germs. When the teacher isn’t looking— and ostensibly, when Atsumu isn’t either— she passes glittery purple notes to her friends about how his crime record is probably as extensive as his ego. 

The teacher hands him his C, eyebrow arched like a seagull’s wing. She thinks he cheats, but hasn’t ever been able to get incriminating evidence. He smiles lazily, gesturing to the empty space where his homework assignment should be. She takes it as a cue to leave.

The girl next to him titters to her friends, pouting at her own grade just marginally better than his. She also thinks he cheats. 

A single leaf clings to the tree by the window, fluttering like a charm in the wind, Atsumu rips his eyes away from it and tries to focus on the flapping of the teacher’s lips instead . 

… 

Osamu, unlike Atsumu, cares about what people think. He thinks his poker face is good, but Atsumu can see the wrinkle between his brows when people whisper at the two of them in the cafeteria. He also thinks that Atsumu doesn’t notice how he irons his own accent into something more citylike, more normal. How he takes extra care to wear his tie stain side down. Atsumu supposes it’s not for nothing, because Osamu does actually have friends. He says hello to people in the hallways, loiters by the vending machine during break sometimes, and on one memorable occasion, has sidled up to Atsumu with a little pink baggie in one hand. 

Osamu has friends, but he sticks by Atsumu like glue. The girls who sit by Atsumu in class theorize that it’s a sense of pity or brotherly obligation, and while that’s definitely a plausible explanation to some irrelevant outsider, Atsumu knows that fundamentally, that’s just how it’s meant to be. Osamu will follow Atsumu to the rooftop to brood like emo losers together even though there are better, more interesting things for him to do since where Atsumu is, Osamu is too.

So, they’re on the rooftop brooding like emo losers, Osamu complaining like always. 

“I swear ta’ god, ya really have no sense o’ bein’ a decent human being, do ya?” The fake accent always drops when it’s just the two of them. Atsumu remembers a time when Osamu came home after eighth grade and locked himself in the bathroom for an hour, making vowel sounds in the mirror until he could get his mouth to cooperate. School for them sits at the fulcrum of high society and home, and there was never much of home to be proud of.

“Nah, ‘s not that. There just ain’t anyone worth talkin’ to,” Atsumu says through a mouthful of rice. “Pah! All they do ‘s cluck like birds, chattering ‘bout nonsense that don’t concern ‘em.” 

“Maybe if ya stopped glarin’ at ‘em,” Osamu says, and laughs. It’s always been an ugly laugh, rough and wheezy and too loud. 

“Nah.” Atsumu feels the corner of his mouth twitch. “They’re all scared o’ me. Got me feelin’ all sorts o’ powerful.”

A particularly brazen crow settles down on the ledge, eyeing Atsumu’s onigiri bento. Out of pity, he tosses it a pickled plum. 

Osamu grumbles, but the crinkles by his eyes spell amusement. “If yer gonna feed the birds before ya feed yourself, you can go righ’ ahead and make yer own food from now on.” 

“Aww, ya care ‘bout me.”

…

Autumn 19

“I don’ know who ya even are, so quit poppin’ up around me!” Atsumu grits through his teeth, mouth arranged in a poor imitation of a smile. It’s a lie. Atsumu has _known of_ Sakusa Kiyoomi since he was fourteen and itching for something more in life than cup ramen and the shoulder of his younger twin brother. In some twisted way, he’s got exactly what he wanted.

(It’s convenience store sushi and a drink in his hand instead.) 

Sakusa levels him with a look, just a couple degrees shy of a glare. “I go to the same school as you, Miya.”

“Damn shame, that is,” he chuckles. “And don’t call me Miya.” Sakusa knows why. Sakusa also looks like he doesn’t plan on stopping anytime soon. It infuriates Atsumu to no end. When they reach the door, Sakusa waits stubbornly until Atsumu holds it open for him, muttering _just do it yerself_ ’s and _damn bastard_ ’s all the while. 

(Once, when Atsumu had asked him why he always waited at the door, he had simply replied ‘it saves hand sanitizer’ with a barely there twitch of the lip. He had initially thought it a joke, but after a couple weeks of the same routine, he realized Sakusa was deadly serious.) 

Unlike Atsumu’s old seatmates, Sakusa does not scoot to the edge of his chair to avoid him. Instead, he sits all the way on the other side of the lecture hall. It’s nothing personal, though; he avoids everyone the same, and in a way, that makes it a little less offensive. Not that Atsumu cares. 

The lecturer strides in six minutes late, with a mess of papers under one arm and a steaming hot latte in the other. Unconsciously, Atsumu turns to the empty seat on his left. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Sakusa wiping down the surface of his desk with a faint grimace. When he turns back to his notes, a ring of condensation has already formed on the paper around the base of his iced coffee.

… 

The thing is, Atsumu’s not stupid. His high school teachers couldn’t catch him cheating because he didn’t. He’s never gotten locked up in juvie because he isn’t dumb enough to throw punches at every little insult. Sakusa despises him because he is tactless and brash and doesn’t bother coddling him like everyone else. He knows how people are, what people like, and he’s lived too long with his face and his personality to be offended or even surprised when people inevitably turn up their noses at him. Atsumu’s not stupid, but even a year after the fact, he still can’t seem to figure out why Osamu left. 

…

Winter 19

“Bokuto-kun, who’s here?” The entrance of their shared dorm flat is normally flooded with shoes thanks to Atsumu’s roommate’s various athletic endeavours, but the meticulously clean volleyball shoes at the doorway are several sizes too small for either of them. 

Atsumu’s presence sets off a round of screaming and Bokuto rounds the corner in all his owlish glory, a little redhead perched on his back showing just as much enthusiasm. He doesn’t wave, each hand fisted tight in a tuft of Bokuto’s ridiculous hair, but he _beams_ and shakes a foot as a kind of substitute. Atsumu might be a little in love.

“I’m Hinata! You must be Miya-san, right? I’ve heard so much about you!”

“Atsumu is fine, and it’s good ta’ meet ya too.” Atsumu is most definitely _not_ fine, because Hinata really is beautiful with his sunshine smile and tiny snaggletooth. The hallway light tangles in his fiery hair, and all Atsumu can really think is _ah_. “Bokuto, why haven’t ya’ brought him around before?”

“Yeah, Bo,” the human-sized Vitamin C supplement says and slips off his back. “Your room is so cool, why did we always meet over at mine? Plus, Atsumu-san’s so much cooler than grumpy ‘ol Kageyama.”

“Are ya sure ‘bout that? Our room’s a total mess.” It’s true, they’re not even five paces from the front door and he can already see volleyballs rolling all over the floors and a miniature leaning tower of takeout junk. Neither him nor Bokuto are inclined towards household chores, and practically the only times they ever manage to eat home cooked meals is when Akaashi’s over. There are other friends—all Bokuto’s—who come and go, but Kuroo had made food at their place a grand total of once. He had also only cooked for himself. An Amazon box of what is no doubt Bokuto’s hair gel and Atsumu’s bleach sits gutted in a heap of tacky blue tape and shredded plastic. He ignores the bit about Kageyama.

“Well, yes, but…” a cowlick of his hair slumps a bit while Hinata fishes for an excuse. “Ah, whatever, it’s not like mine and Kageyama’s is any better. Say, Atsumu-san, are you free? Me ‘n Bokkun have been working on this _really_ cool quick attack! It’s all _boom_ and _thwack-pow_! You’ll love it!”

Atsumu had understood about thirty percent of that sentence, but the infectious excitement washes over him and pulls his own mouth into a genuine smile. Bokuto looks at him like he’s a stranger for a second or three before he’s pushing both of them out of the room with a grin of his own. It’s far colder outside than is socially acceptable, yet Atsumu is still oddly out of place among the three of them with his down jacket and gaudy knit scarf. Bokuto and Hinata are running laps around him in kneepads and basketball shorts, and it would’ve been absolutely terrifying if Atsumu hadn’t recognized the sparks in their eyes. 

When they get to the gym, Atsumu’s teeth are rattling and he’s pulled his jacket tight enough around him that it clings to him when he peels it off. It’s a sort of chaos inside, balls ricocheting off floors and walls decorating the air with their arrhythmic cacophony. Friends chase each other in circles, stretching out their muscles and holding impromptu pull up competitions at the doorframe between the main building and the weightroom. There’s a girl in the corner of his eye, tap-tap-tapping a ball against the wall. _HARD-soft-soft-HARD-soft-soft_. Like the beats of a waltz. 

“Atsumu-kun! Watch this!” He whips around just fast enough to catch the volleyball arching from taped fingers. Hinata’s running, and there’s no way he’s ever gonna reach that thing but he slams a foot down and _soars_ . The one-two-three Atsumu has been tapping against his thigh turns into a one-twothreefourfive turns into a resounding bang of a ball slamming straight into the floor. He’s hanging in the air, framed by the ugly fluorescent lights, and Atsumu forgets how to breathe until Bokuto shouts a _that’s what I’m talking about_ after Hinata’s long since floated back down to earth.

“So? What’d you think?” They’re both grinning at him like they know exactly what he’s going to say just from the dumbstruck look on his face.

“Hinata-kun, are ya sure you’re human? I’m pretty sure there’s some sorta law o’ physics that says tha’ can’t happen.” He can see the boy biting back yet another smile— seriously, he smiles more than any person has a right to— and Atsumu kind of wants to kiss it.

“Hey hey hey, it’s my turn now! Atsumu-kun, you better sing praises for your awesome roommate too!”

...

Summer 22

The sun is long gone but heat sticks to Atsumu’s skin in a thick, heavy layer. The air smells of alcohol and sweat and loneliness, and when the girl in his arms breezes off with a wink and a drunken giggle, all he can do is watch. 

The pounding music melts into something more thick, more sensual. His skin turns from siren-red to a swirling purple, the lights washing his hair out to something a little less blond. Men donning leather disgrace and diamonds branded on their fingers slide drinks across the sticky marble as women flit around in flocks across a carpet, ruddy after enough wine. Fake nails and flimsy jackets disappear in the rabble as Atsumu watches the people in the club meld into an all-encompassing organism breathing with each dip and swell of the music; the man next to him lets a curl of smoke slip between cracked lips. The pungent smell lingers, thick and grounding and a little stale. Atsumu’s rough edges have been sanded down by college and the inevitability of dealing with people he’d rather not, and he knows how to speak in a dialect other than smarmy asshole now. Still, he’ll only ever be the life of the party out of spite— he never used to care enough about _people_ to bother observing them either, but maybe he’s learnt a shred of empathy. Perhaps it’s because this time, the crowd brings about an ugly nostalgia, a sense of familiarity. Perhaps it’s because only the crazy, the sad, and the free would ever be here on a Tuesday night so late it’s Wednesday morning, drinking to the girl with the angel smile crooning into the mic on a scratched-up stage. 

And maybe it’s the new people-watching hobby Atsumu has to blame for his next cursory sweep of the room that just so happens to land on a figure cringing into a shadowed corner. It’s a trick of the light at first, until the light bends around curled hair hanging over one eye and a muscle normally hidden beneath a mask pulsing over the sharp cut of jawline. It’s not a trick of the light that carves out a marble face arranged in a delicate grimace and reflects across an objectively awful outfit that could only ever belong to one Sakusa Kiyoomi. 

But if it’s not a trick of the light, then it must be a hallucination because Sakusa does not go to clubs, does not go anywhere without his mask or enter a building without Atsumu opening the door for him first. Sakusa does not even exist on the same plane as Atsumu but it doesn’t stop him from meeting Atsumu’s own eyes across the bar. Before he even registers, he’s closing the distance. 

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t Omi-omi.” Just because he _can_ turn off the asshole switch doesn’t mean he will.

“Miya. I can see you haven’t changed at all.” He’s lying. Sakusa has always been remarkably easy to read, from the way he holds himself upright so as to not brush against the stained walls to the way he looks down his nose at Atsumu with the usual contempt but also a layer of hesitant curiosity. It’s not a familiar expression, but it’s not new, either. The tips of Atsumu’s fingers burn in recognition.

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” Atsumu runs a hand through his hair. “I’ve finally discovered toner an’ purple shampoo.”

“So you have.” 

“Aw c’mon, Omi-kun! Show some more enthusiasm, won’t ya? Don’t ya miss yer old pal?”

“I did not—” Sakusa grimaces around the word in his mouth as if it had sprouted mold and latched onto his tongue, “— _miss_ you. Until just now, you were a forgotten grease stain in my memory.”

Atsumu gasps in mock offence. “I can’t believe you forgot the best person in your life.” 

“I don’t know. Maybe you weren’t worth remembering.”

And really, Atsumu doesn’t know why he’s here, letting this happen. Ever since he was an angry freshman in high school, he’s never really wanted to be around Sakusa. Little Mister Virtuoso, maybe the only other musician who could match Atsumu’s own rotten personality onstage and off. The only thing preferable to needling him until his hackles raise would be surgically removing him from Atsumu’s life, because it doesn’t make sense. It doesn’t make sense that he’s never felt so complete, shining on that stage with Sakusa right beside him. It doesn’t make sense that he’s so horrifyingly in sync with some snotty city brat who can barely stand to be within six feet of him, maybe even more so than he is with his own flesh and blood. But.

_But._

“I’ll show you something to remember.”

Sakusa’s eyes are as black as his rings.

“Kiss me, Kiyoomi.”

...

“This is a one-time thing,” Sakusa hisses into the dip of Atsumu’s collarbone, barely audible over the patter of water against the shower floor. Atsumu would’ve snarked back, but then Sakusa bites down on the sensitive flesh and the only thing that comes out of his mouth is a startled gasp. When he pulls away, the slight red pales into nothing. 

The way they pull at each other, battling with teeth and tongue and nail, isn’t loving at all; there’s nothing but pants and hisses and mouthed curses in Atsumu’s ear. The calluses on his fingers dig into Atsumu’s hip. Rough, painful, imperfect. Calluses—the only indication that Sakusa Kiyoomi is just as human as he is— even under the steam of the shower, he feels cold to the touch. Atsumu traces the rivulets of water dripping down on alabaster skin, across the divots of muscle definition, and pulls him back into a kiss. Because, at this moment, Sakusa Kiyoomi is beautiful.

He’s gone once the two of them are satiated, every trace of the encounter scrubbed out of their bodies. 

...

The man in front of Atsumu smiles. It’s Atsumu’s smile, because the man in front of him _is_ Atsumu, picking at the skin of his cuticles and leaning up against the train ( _since when was he on a train?_ ) window. His hair is also flipped to the wrong side, dyed the wrong color. Wait.

_Osamu?_

“Who’s Osamu?” Maybe-Osamu says, and rips a hole through the side of the carriage. Gashes open in the walls like they were made of aluminum. The scraping against metal is deafening as the ivy clung to the outside of the train thickens into tendrils of vine fighting to enter, snaking around the marble busts scattered on the floor( _were those always there?_ ) and up Atsumu’s leg.

The scenery blurs, a muddy tapestry of the city and ratty bars and corner stores and home. His chest aches.

“Who’s Osamu?” 

_Everything_

_Nothing_

“You’re Osamu.”

“Wrong.” The vines start writhing again, wrapping around him faster and tighter as not-quite-Osamu’s eyes darken to black. His jaw unhinges, hard and wooden and not at all like Osamu, and drops open like a broken marionette. A finger presses into Atsumu’s chest, nail digging into phantom bite marks, and definitely-not-Osamu’s next words are smoke leaking into his lungs. 

“Stay away from the glitz and glamour of lust. You’ll still be picking it out of your shirts months later.”

...

Winter 18

Atsumu catches Suna Rintarou at the corner by the 7/11. His hands are cold, and his knuckles lock, even when he slams the guy into the wall. Suna, to his credit, barely even flinches, slumping into the brick and staring down at Atsumu through tired eyes.

“Well? Do you want anything?” Atsumu’s fist clenches tighter around the fabric of his jacket.

“What did you do to my brother?”

Suna’s face flattens in understanding, the edges of his lips curling into a nasty leer. “I didn’t do anything.”

The blood roars behind Atsumu’s eardrums. Wind batters against their clothes, urging him forward. Suna’s jacket crumples across his body. 

“You know what you did. You— you told him things. It was always you who told him things. And now he’s gone to who knows where. How dare you—!”

He catches Atsumu’s fist before it connects with his face. “I didn’t tell him anything. Everything he did was his choice. He wanted to leave; I just helped him a little.”

“You’re lying.” He has to be lying. Osamu would never leave Atsumu—that’s not how it works. There’s no way he would ever leave because wherever Atsumu goes, Osamu follows. Because all they have here is each other, and why would Osamu ever leave when he can sit on the roof with Atsumu and tell him stories about his classmates and force Atsumu to carry his cello to the empty classroom they practice in. 

“Maybe you don’t know him as well as you thought you did.” 

Atsumu’s jaw drops open. 

“Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go make dinner. Not all of us have brothers willing to cook for us,” Suna pauses, smirk getting wider. Atsumu decides that he hates this bastard. “ _Oh wait._ ”

Atsumu’s hands are balled into fists at his sides. He doesn’t think he’ll be able to unfurl them until well into tomorrow, but before he can chase after him, Suna turns the corner and melts into the night. 

The radiator is on when he makes it back, but home has never felt so cold before. 

…

Summer 14

“‘Samu, hurry yer ass up! We’re gonna be late!” Atsumu shouts over his shoulder as he takes the steps two at a time. Osamu’s face crumples into a glare.

“Tsumu, I’m not a violinist. This is a _cello_. Ya know, that big fat heavy wooden instrument that’s sixty percent as tall as me.”

“Wah wah wah. All I’m hearing is ‘I’m Osamu an’ I’m weak’. I bet ya two cups o’ ramen I can carry it faster than ya.”

“Yer’ _on_.”

After a more exhausting race than Atsumu would like to admit, they’re sliding into their seats, just shy of tardy. The conductor glares at them both before resuming to shuffle around the scores on his stand like he knows what he’s doing. 

Music is a glorious thing. Music twisting through the strings and hammers of pianos and the bodies of bassoons has been Atsumu’s blood since he first switched the radio onto channel 98.5 and heard Dvorak’s New World Symphony for the first time. Since a mother whose face he doesn’t even remember anymore opened her mouth and sang the first few measures of Ave Maria. And even though Osamu was the one with the violin first, even though Atsumu spent his first two years with the little wooden thing producing noise pollution, he knows somewhere in his heart that the two of them are meant to be great.

“Miya Atsumu, if you’re not going to pay attention, I will give your solo to someone else.”

“Yessir.” With his eyes, though, he screams _no you won’t._ No he won’t because Atsumu is _good_ and they both know the orchestra needs him. Osamu glares at him from across the room.

“Ya know, ya gotta stop bein’ so arrogant all the time,” Osamu tells him later, fiddling with the end of his bow. “Even if yer good, there’s no golden rule that has ya stayin’ here by law.”

Atsumu feels his jaw flapping around a retort, but Osamu’s steamrolling on. “If we don’t got an orchestra, then where the hell are we gonna be?”

“We don’t need no orchestra, ya hearin’ me? You an’ I, ‘Samu… you an’ I are gonna be great. If we don’t got an orchestra, we can get a quartet. If we don’t got a quartet, we can be you and me. Can ya imagine? ‘Tsumu an’ ‘Samu on some hoity toity billboard. All the way over in America. In _New York._ ”

For a second, Osamu’s expression is unreadable. But then, it cracks into a grin. “Alright, ‘Tsumu. You an’ me against the world.”

…

Autumn 20

Atsumu stumbles through the doors to the audition room with all the grace of a three-legged elephant. The case slung over one arm is chipped and frayed all around the edges, handle dangerously close to ripping clean off. 

The secretary(Organizer? Volunteer?) seated behind a desk and at least six layers of condescension raises a plucked eyebrow at him, wordlessly gesturing to the sign-in sheet pinned to a clipboard. 

Before he can even grab the pen, though, a quick flash of neon in his peripheral sends the plastic clattering to the ground. Sakusa’s skittered into a wall, pointing at Atsumu like he’s a roach. Not even the mask can hide the edges of his disbelieving laugh. Belatedly, Atsumu realizes that this is the first time he’s ever heard Sakusa make that sound.

“Miya, you’re in the wrong building.”

“What?” Atsumu pulls the pamphlet from his pocket. It crumples in his hand as he reads and rereads the address.

“The athletes are in the gym. The flunkouts are on the roof or something. You’re at the wrong place.”

“I’m neither o’ those. Can’t ya see this here?” The case jangles against his leg.

“I don’t care, Miya. You’re not a musician,” Sakusa pulls his mask under his chin, as if to make his point clearer. His mouth is _objectively_ nice, with a neat cupid’s bow and delicate bottom lip, but he’s never looked more ugly. “You’re not a musician.”

Atsumu watches him leave.

There are a couple chairs in the lobby. Some are broken and all are far too small. The walls are just thin enough to let whispers of sound slip through, just sturdy enough for Atsumu to rest his head against and listen through. The sound of his name echoing down the halls cuts through the music.

The auditioner looks down her nose at him, leaning into her seat. Flicks through the scores like they’re a particularly uninteresting magazine catalogue. 

“Bach?”

“Yes, Bach.”

Atsumu’s palms are sweating and shaky. It takes a couple tries to slip on the shoulder rest and double that to sort out the rosin. He’s not too sure he remembers that one section he’d been working on for three days straight or how to play the piece in general or even what he’s playing at all. The lady in the judge’s seat is looking right at him and all he can see is a lipsticked mouth twisting into some sort of sugarcoated rejection. He closes his eyes, smiles, and plays.

…

Summer 16

Due to the second law of thermodynamics, the very house that serves as an icebox in the winter just so happens to be even more of an oven than the great outdoors in the summer. Atsumu blames entropy for the mess strewn across the floor as well, all of his desire to make the living room look somewhat inhabitable melting off him like sweat. Since Atsumu’s such a wonderful brother, he’s given Osamu the lion’s share of the only leather sofa they have— he’s been sessile for the past half-hour. The insistent grumble of his stomach, though, tells Atsumu that he’s not going to be for much longer.

Osamu unsticks himself from the couch, yanking the flimsy tee over his head and reaching for an even flimsier one. It’s a size too small and all stretched out from the wash, but it serves its purpose. 

“Gonna grab ice cream. Want anything?”

Atsumu’s words muffle against the hardwood of the floor. He’s thirty percent sure he’s eating dust. “You can pick. Yer gonna end up eatin’ most of it, anyway.”

“Liar. Also, I’m callin’ the shower.”

Atsumu is far too dead to protest. “Good. Yer stinkin’ up the place.”

Osamu leans over the armrest to flick him across the forehead before stumbling out the door. The heat jostles through the entrance, slapping him across the face until Osamu mercifully shuts it behind him. The voices outside the window fade into white noise, even the birds ducking under rooftops and particularly large tree branches for shade. The man who normally loiters around the bus stop to feed pigeons and read last week’s paper is conspicuously absent, but Atsumu can’t say he’s surprised. What _does_ surprise him, though, is that when Osamu makes his way back with bundles of sweating ice cream tubs held against his chest, he’s not alone. They don’t even give Atsumu the chance to sit up.

“‘Tsumu!” Osamu’s moving far too fast for weather like this. Osamu, who would be content to become one with his bed if someone brought him enough food, is practically skipping. Atsumu briefly wonders if the heat’s making him see things. “‘Tsumu, meet Sunarin!”

The boy in the doorway doesn’t look like he appreciates the enthusiasm. In fact, he doesn’t look like he appreciates much of anything, slipping his shoes off with the minimum number of fingers necessary and easing into the cracked couch like he’s done it a thousand times. 

“Suna,” he says, not quite looking at Atsumu. It’s the most pathetic introduction he’s ever heard.

“Atsumu.” So, he returns the favor. Osamu picks up on his unspoken question, pausing his terrorism on the cookies n’ cream ice cream tub.

“Suna’s in my class. He’s really _really_ smart when he wants to be and lets me use his consoles every now and then. You’re gonna love him!”

The fake accent is back, coating Osamu’s tongue like glue. His voice is all smooth and proper and fake and Atsumu hates it. Then he _laughs_ a little and it’s… it’s normal. Something that sounds like a normal person laugh, and not a cat with asthma choking on an overlarge ball of yarn. Atsumu _hates_ it. 

“Let’s head to your room,” Suna says, picking at his nails. There’s not much to pick, really, since they’re trimmed right up to the quick. Atsumu scowls. He’s most certainly not loving Suna, and if the disdainful sneer playing across Suna’s lips is any indication, the feeling is reciprocated. Osamu’s the happiest he’s been in months, though, so he’s going to have to suck it up and deal with it. 

And then Suna’s gone, and the sun’s melted into a speckled sky, and all the fake in Osamu bleeds out. He’s back in the kitchen digging for ice cream even though the temperature has stabilized to a viable degree and Atsumu calls him a selfish, lazy asshole. Osamu says that it takes one to know one; there’s no honest way he can rebut that, so Atsumu settles for flipping him off. And really, Osamu is far too selfish and lazy and assholish to stick around with someone like Suna for too long. Soon, he’ll get tired of pretending to be a snooty ol’ city boy and making sure his guests don’t accidentally electrocute themselves on the open circuit dangling out of their radiator. He’ll get tired of hiding the fact that the door to the kitchen doesn’t close proper and that if the windows open any more than twenty three degrees, they’ll snap right off. Except Suna keeps coming back and it becomes habit for Atsumu to go take a hike with his violin when the two of them take full reign of the house. Except each time it happens, Osamu becomes a little harder to read— with each visit, a little more of the fake clings onto him and refuses to let go. 

But Osamu still hums off-key when he makes dinner. Osamu still rosins his bow over the cushion of the couch because he’s overly prone to dropping fragile things. Osamu still goes to sleep all curled up and with two more pillows than necessary because he’s a baby like that. If he notices how Atsumu scoots a little closer, he doesn’t comment.

…

Autumn 20

The person who reacts with the most vigour to Atsumu’s acceptance into the music program is probably Sakusa. 

“There has to be some mistake.” The skin across his cheekbones is a faint pink, which means he is extremely worked up. 

“Aw, come on, Omi-kun, aren’t ya glad you get to spend more time with me?”

Sakusa looks over at him with disgust written in the wrinkles of his forehead. It’s a familiar expression, really, so Atsumu isn’t particularly bothered. Also, he’s _won_ this time, and not even a thousand disdainful Omi-Looks can change the fact that he got _accepted_ , and with flying colors. It feels great being right.

Sitting third stand is an odd feeling. Odd for Atsumu, who’s been front and center in the little koi pond he grew up in. Who has never been anything less than remarkable, for better or for worse. The conductor barely nods in his general direction before sweeping a tower of scores into their laps, sparing just a second to clear his throat. He stands up tall, scruffy moustache wobbling over his lips as he corrects each section’s dynamics at the first cadence. It’s a little funny, really. He looks like the little caricature on the Monopoly boxes or the Pringles cans, overdressed to a fault and at least 6’2’’ in attitude if not height. 

The girl who sits to his right does not use glittery purple pen. She takes notes in their shared music with a blunt pencil procured from the depths of her coat pocket— he’d just seen her conjure a pair of tangled earbuds, her phone, a notebook, and inexplicably, a whole bagel in her quest for it. He’s quite confident she got that jacket from some sort of benevolent faerie. She doesn’t even scoot to the edge of her seat when he leans in to turn the page, just smiles and flicks the hair off her left shoulder. 

“You’re pretty good,” she says. The words tangle in the corners of her crooked grin, and he instantly decides he likes the sound. She always seems to be smiling, lip quirked just a little more on the left than the right. 

“Thanks, I try.”

She looks like she’s ready to snark right back, but then the conductor indicates for Kageyama to start his solo and they simmer into silence. 

…

Autumn 17

The annoying thing about Kageyama is that he deserves everything he has.

He’s not like Sakusa, the prodigy from a family of prodigies, born and bred in the city with a carefully sanitized silver spoon in his mouth. Kageyama’s just like Atsumu— a country hick who picked up a violin one day and fell in love. 

Kageyama didn’t exist until one day, he did. Osamu had managed to whack the TV just the right way for it to turn on, and there under the marble ceiling and the golden spotlights, was Tobio Kageyama performing in the finals. Tobio Kageyama, with nothing but passion, hard work, and a violin worth his life’s savings to his name, taking second place in a rich kid arena. 

_What’s the point, man_ , some kid with a bowl cut mutters to his friend, the next day. His fingers are smooth. _I guess there are just some people who are too freakin’ talented._

Being a musician, in any capacity, is hard. Atsumu knows this better than most. Muscling through a scale book without receiving any noise complaints from the neighbors is a feat worth praising. It takes hours upon days upon months upon years and then some to make any music worth listening to. And, fundamentally, he _knows_ that some people treat it as just a hobby. What a sad life it must be, to succumb to music halfheartedly. To look at Kageyama on the summit and be content to bask in his shadow. Maybe it’s self destructive, the way Atsumu listens to Kageyama’s winning tape again and again, thinking to himself _I can do better_. The way he plays until his fingers bleed, on one of the seats in an empty classroom because the light bills at home are too darn expensive. The way he clings onto beauty until it swallows him whole. Words are hollow, contrary things that he’s long since forgotten to use, ever since music became his life.

He says as much to Osamu. That is, he says ‘ _music is great, eh?’_ before returning to the replays that have been on since yesterday morning. 

“Don’t ya love it, ‘Samu?”

Osamu’s smile is warm. “Of course I do.”

…

Autumn 20

“Ugh,” Atsumu says, completely involuntarily. It’s barely a whisper, but Yukie—according to the loopy handwriting in the corner of their score— gives him a look. It’s half confused, half amused, and he feels compelled to explain himself. “He’s a completely different player now, it’s kind o’ scary.”

“Really? He was always good.” 

Atsumu traces the scroll of his violin, around and around. “Yeah, but he used ta be so cut and dry. Ya know, by the book and all.”

“Are you calling him boring?” She stifles the buds of her laugh with a hand over her mouth. The boy at second stand moves to turn towards them, but seems to change his mind halfway through and untwists to face front. 

“Maybe.”

“Alright, Atsumu, if you’re gonna call our concertmaster boring, then I’ll be expecting great things from you.”

Atsumu thinks of a music director who kept him around because he didn’t have much choice in the matter. Thinks of teachers and classmates who saw an angry-at-the-world kid who couldn’t do anything quite right. Thinks of resigning himself to the four walls of that house, performing for no one in particular. 

Thinks of the envelope, from an Admissions Officer Kita Shinsuke, with the acceptance letter. With the scholarship.

“Good. Ya should.” This time, he finds himself meaning it.

…

Summer 21

“Do I really need to?”

“Omi-kun, our performance is in two days and your roommate sexiled us.” 

Sakusa frowns. Atsumu’s not sure if it’s at the notion of his cousin banging some mystery man or if he just really doesn’t want to meet Bokuto. “Do I _really_ need to?”

Atsumu just sighs, propping open the front door with his foot. There’s an extra pair of volleyball shoes by the welcome mat, which means Hinata is over. If Hinata is over, that means him and Bokuto have probably been having their fun wrecking the place and burning water and whatever else it is they do. And if that’s the case, then Atsumu’s halfhearted efforts at cleaning the house have been reversed, and then some. It certainly doesn’t help that he’s never been much of a cleaner in general, the only chore he’s gained full mastery of being washing dishes. Him and Osamu never had much need for folded clothes— they never really managed to keep track of things in an accessible manner, in general. The keychains hung off the book ends, and the glassware cabinet was filled with plastic bags, more often than not. It’s quite similar with Bokuto; team jackets and music scores settle into their nomadic lifestyles over unspoken agreements to just leave them where they are. The main difference is that in their shared room, they keep a stripe of blue tape across the floor. On the right, Bokuto. On the left, Atsumu. 

(With Osamu, the line had blurred until none of them could tell where one ended and the other began.)

“And for that reason, I’m gonna hafta need y’all to head out to the gym or somethin’ for a couple hours.”

“Aww,” Hinata says. He looks ridiculously adorable.

“Aww,” Bokuto says. He looks adorably ridiculous.

Atsumu is unimpressed. “Yer sayin’ that as if ya don’t drag me to the gym all the time and spend ninety percent o’ yer brain cells thinkin’ about volleyball. A few hours ain’t gonna kill ya.”

When the door closes behind them, Sakusa sags into the wooden chair he’s pulled up. He looks slightly less like he wants to jump out a window, which may be because of prolonged exposure to Bokuto’s and Hinata’s boundless optimism. Perhaps he’s become a happier person through osmosis, or something. 

“Alright, let’s get this over with.”

Now that Atsumu has gotten the chance to listen to Sakusa play, unobstructed, he has to admit that it is beautiful. The bow moves like an extension of his body, bassy _vibrato_ so strong he feels it in his bones. It’s beautiful, but it’s so polished it sets Atsumu’s teeth on edge. When Atsumu tells him he plays like an AI, his eyes crinkle right under the waterline, a half laugh.

“By all means, go and find an AI to replace me.”

“You know that’s not what I meant,” Atsumu grumbles, flipping through the scores they had picked out. He had never liked Baroque music much—he’s always been a bit too wild to fit in all the boxes and borders. “Oh, whatever, let’s just play.”

…

“ _No_ , we’re not going to slow down there,” Sakusa hisses, two hours later. His temple throbs, and Atsumu can see the way his jaw sets through the fabric of his mask. “Too much tempo fluctuation and the piece is ruined.”

“I don’t know what yer fancy ass teachers taught ya, but rubato here sounds _good_. Theory be damned.”

Sakusa moves to throw his bow, but thinks better of it and places it gently in his case. “You know what, this isn’t working. This piece doesn’t fit us.”

“What do you suggest we do?” Atsumu can taste the incredulousness on the roof of his mouth. “Change our set piece? Two days before the concert?”

“Yes.”

Atsumu knows it’s not a joke, but he laughs anyway. “To what?”

“Are you familiar with _Passacaglia_? Handel-Halvorsen?” 

His smile freezes. “And if I am?”

“Then we play that.” Sakusa’s gaze has shifted to his own fingers, dancing in patterns on his lap. Distantly, Atsumu wonders if being able to exist like a piece of art is a byproduct of being born better than everyone else. But even if he _was_ born better than everyone else, he’s all _wrong_ . Sakusa’s hands are long and bony and bend all sorts of ways and absolutely _wrong_ . The hands that should speak _Passacaglia_ into life are thick and strong, twisting round and round school uniform ties when they’re nervous, wet in the mornings with water and hints of sushi vinegar in a kitchen they were always so comfortable in. 

“No, we do not play that.”

“Why not?” Sakusa’s face is pleasantly neutral, which only makes the bile gathering in Atsumu’s throat stronger. “It’s more suitable for our playing styles, we’re both familiar with it, it’s showy enough to be a highlight.”

The city pierces through the horizon, jagged skyscrapers like incisors closing in around the little square window of the dorm. The sky is the wrong shade of blue.

…

Winter 23

The air in the countryside is the first thing he notices. The roar of the taxis in the city, the flashing neon nights that showed up in double sometimes when it rained, all the people. The city is beautiful, but suffocating in a way that too much life in too little space tends to be. There’s life in the country too, but it’s warmer. Snow clings to gnarled tree branches overhead, and Atsumu takes the time to appreciate the way the innocent white fans across the road. It smells so clean it’s almost sterile.

Sometimes, Atsumu wonders if he’s a coward. He’s back home not because he misses it, but because he has nowhere else to go. He had walked into a bookshop, laid his eyes on a man with curly hair swept across his forehead and dark as ink, and instinctively ducked behind a shelf before noticing the bronze nametag on his chest, _Matsukawa_. 

Once, he had decided to go on a grocery run at the nearest 24-hour store, and just so happened to run into a bed of orange hair melded into the chest of a very familiar face. Kageyama had appraised him with those dagger-sharp blue eyes and raised a hand in greeting. _Hello, Atsumu-san_. 

_Atsumu-san?_ Hinata perked up and extricated himself from around Kageyama’s waist. _Long time no see! You’re looking as good as ever!_ And Atsumu had everything and nothing to say when the pair softly bickered over which ice cream to get, when Kageyama took special care to tug the zipper of Hinata’s jacket all the way up, when they snuck in their little whispers and pecks on the cheek when they thought he had turned away. There was a mesh bag of mandarin oranges sitting in their cart, even though Kageyama with his violin nails wouldn’t have been able to peel them even if he wanted to. 

_It was good to see you, but we’ve got to hurry home. Tobio has some sort of fancy rehearsal thing and we still need to grab dinner since neither of us can cook_.

And then Hinata had smiled, and Atsumu’s heart ached. 

...

Summer 21

“Did you remember to tune your violin?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“And your rosin?”

“I know this may be hard to believe, Omi-kun, but I know how to play my instrument.”

Sakusa’s face sours, before turning back to his lap, where he’s fiddling with the endpin. None of the pressure seems to get to him, and not for the first time, Atsumu wonders if he’s not entirely human. In fact, as the minutes pass, the pressure in his chest only gets more constricting. He’s not too sure if he can do this. It wasn’t supposed to be this way.

_thump_

“We need to go.”

_thump_

“Miya, we need to go.”

_thump_

“Miya!”

_shh._

“Okay. Let’s go.” 

The applause is polite: no more, no less. Even in the dim lighting, Atsumu can pick out a couple kids fiddling with a video game next to their tired-looking mother. Sakusa stares resolutely ahead, directly through the hall, until the last coughs and whispers die out into silence. 

Two deep breaths ring in the air, and two bows meet their instruments. 

There is no need for words, in Atsumu’s head or Sakusa’s or the audience’s, because the music speaks for itself. Sakusa’s cello dips and soars, like the depths of hell and the gates of heaven and every facet of perfection, all carved through the air. The kind of sound that should be put in a museum, delicate and wavering behind a glass shell. And there’s Atsumu, who plays like an ordinary human who has lost the most important thing in his life. It’s raw, it’s gritty, it’s rough around the edges. It’s beautiful, in the way back alleys and flowering cemeteries and piles of clothes across bunk beds are. They shouldn’t fit together, but they do. They do. 

And when they drive the last chord through the ground, let the sound echo, register the roaring applause in the audience, Atsumu knows in his heart that it was perfect. Sakusa’s expression is neutral, even when they’re returning backstage, even when it’s all Atsumu can do to keep himself from crying. The cellist catches a glimpse of his face, pausing halfway through loosening his bow. 

“Why do you look upset? It was a pretty good performance.”

“It was,” Atsumu replies, as if that answers everything.

“So you shouldn’t be upset. It’s not like you messed up.”

And maybe it would’ve been better if he had. Maybe it would’ve been better if they played horribly and Sakusa had yelled at him for ruining everything, because that way he could find his brother and say _I need you_ and _there’s no one in the world who would replace us_ . _Not even Sakusa Kiyoomi_ . But he played _their_ piece with someone else, and it was perfect. Better, even, than all the times he’d tried with Osamu. If he blocks his ears, the sepia-faded sound of a cheap-as-dirt cello wavers over the fresh memory of their performance, unraveling, replacing. If he closes his eyes, the man who had sat onstage with him shrinks a couple centimeters, dark moles fading out and hair straightening and flipping to the left. Thin hands widen, a scar from a kitchen accident whitening along the side of a forefinger. 

“I don’t understand,” Sakusa says. “Shouldn’t you be glad you’ve proven yourself halfway competent, at least?”

Atsumu can pretend that Sakusa is someone else all he likes, but he’s not. He’s not.

...

Spring 25

It takes two years before Atsumu dares to return home. 

The house is a measly 400 square feet, but even so, it feels twice as big as it should. The TV license expired years ago, dust collecting in a thick layer over its boxy surface. The silence is unsettling, all the life wrangled out of it by a plastic bag taut over its head, and Atsumu finds himself drowning her out with whatever he has on hand. He cuts his cucumbers louder than usual, even though this newfound practice has done nothing for the unevenness of his knife skills. There are white threads crisscrossing along his fingers, from all the little moments he hasn’t quite mastered. All the kitchen utensil nicks, the papercuts, the temporary injuries. Although, he supposes, to say that the house is silent is a lie. In the corner, the banshee wails by the covered-up mirror, the loudest when the light hits just right. The memories refuse to leave, but they’ve become tolerable now that Atsumu’s learnt how to handle them. 

The sound of his violin echoes loud. Louder than he had ever remembered, but he had also never played alone, then. Most of the faces that pass are familiar— the man who fed pigeons at the bus stop had passed away a year ago, and now his daughter sits in his place. There’s a silent sort of resignation on her face when she reads and rereads stories long past, and something about the display makes Atsumu’s heart twinge. 

He’ll stay for a few months, and then he’ll leave again. Because life shouldn’t begin and end in this little pocket of the world. Because Atsumu has bigger and better things to do, but he always finds his way back. The girl who used to sit next to him in school has upgraded from glittery purple pens to glittery purple heels, stepping carefully around the bubblegum landmines up and down the sidewalks. Maybe all his rough edges have well and truly been sanded down, since she thinks he’s hot now and bats her painted eyelids at him when they pass each other on the street. Maybe it’s why he can’t bring himself to care. He doesn’t think he could recognize his old teachers and music directors even if he tried, so many years of bitterness probably shrivelling their faces up like umeboshi— the cheap kind, in the plastic cartons from the supermarket. 

It’s fine, though. He’s formed a tenuous relationship with home in the months he’s been here. Every other day, he’ll head to the market with the boxes of fruit at the entrance. He’ll ask the auntie who sweeps outside which produce to choose, because he had never quite learned how to judge a food’s quality via slap. He doesn’t need to find an empty classroom to play in anymore. The walls are thin, still, but there’s no one else to be cautious of. He takes Osamu’s bed at night. The thought is a little ridiculous, a grown man sleeping in the top bunk just because they both used to like it more. 

He contemplates heading back to the city sooner rather than later. Back to Osaka, maybe, or Kyoto. There’s nothing really worth keeping, people-wise. His attachment to the dump of a house he used to hate— still does, in fact— is inexplicable. 

“Yer’ gonna leave again?” The auntie sweeping leaves outside the supermarket says, once Atsumu breaks the news. She sounds genuinely sad, and it makes Atsumu kind of guilty. When did he learn to be empathetic? Was it during that final university performance? Or maybe on a sticky summer night in a bar. Maybe some time in between. Maybe it was always there, under layers and layers of asshole. 

“I’m not too sure yet. Nothin’s set in stone. Maybe I’ma stay a couple months more.”

She grins a big, toothless grin. The crows’ feet around her eyes fan out like flower petals.

Sakura clings to his hair when he walks home, an extra-large box of strawberries tucked under his arm. She had insisted on the discount, refusing the money he had tried to push into her hands. They go on the counter as Atsumu worries through his hair, just a little fried from his recent dye job, flicking out the spare petals. The gentle murmur of the song in his earbuds almost drowns out the sound of a doorknob twisting, of knocking.

Atsumu’s lived long enough to know that serendipity is a scam. He’s lived long enough to realize that good omens and high hopes only ever exist to shatter against the ground, that some memories are only that and the person outside his door is a salesman with odds ten thousand to one. But there’s a spark in his chest, and he’s _home_ after all. If there’s any chance that this would ever happen, it would be right here, right now. 

He opens the door.

…

Summer 3

“Mo- _om_!” Atsumu whines, pulling at a cotton pant leg. “Tell ‘Samu he’s a meanie! And Ms. Dasai likes me more!”

Osamu pouts, holding the beat-up toy tightly with a pair of meaty fists. “It’s _my_ turn with the car!”

Their mother smiles a faceless smile. “Play nice, boys. You need to learn to share.”

“I don’t like sharin’.”

“Me either.”

She laughs again. “You two are gonna be together forever, so ya gotta learn to put up with each other. Better now than never.” 

...

Winter 5

The rain that had fallen the night before had hardened into a thick sleet, coating the street and slipping into the cracks. 

“Hey, look at this!” Osamu teeters along, on feet that still trip over themselves sometimes. His arms are out, wrapped in a coat double his bulk.

“Stupid ‘Samu, I bet I can go faster!” 

When Atsumu faceplants, Osamu laughs for a solid minute before stretching out a hand to help him up.

...

Autumn 7

“I can’t believe he just left us.”

Atsumu stares, hard, at the grave. “Fat load of good he did for us.”

A pair of _hagi_ flower sprigs fall from cold fingers to the earth, over the dusty stone. They look so broken and delicate, detached from their roots.

“Guess he figured he could go and find some new chick now that mum’s dead and we’re old enough to walk to school ourselves.”

The wind ripples with the grass. _Loving daughter, wife, and mother. An angel taken from us too soon._

… 

Summer 10

“You two should totally play this piece! Look, it’s for violin and cello only.” Ginjima’s smile is gap-toothed. He’s kind of weird and his sole hobby, seemingly, is collecting pokémon cards, but he’s also nice. Whenever he shares his cookies, it’s always half to Atsumu, half to Osamu. They peer over the music score on the table. Across the cover, in gold letters, is _Passacaglia_ . Pah-sah- _call_ -ee-ah, is how Ginjima says it.

Osamu shrugs. “It looks hard, and we’re not that good yet.”

“Of course we should,” Atsumu elbows him. “Keep that attitude up and yer always gonna suck.”

“I’m literally better than ya!”

“Yeah, at cello maybe. Betcha can’t even play a scale on the violin anymore.”

“Cello’s harder and ya know it.”

  
Winter 14

The house is colder than a witch’s tit and both of them had set aside their manly pride to huddle close under the blanket. They’re sharing Osamu’s earbuds this time, because Osamu says he has the better taste in music and also Atsumu’s phone is all the way across the room and if he moves, he’ll probably freeze to death where he stands. The floor is off-limits, even with socks. 

Autumn 18

Atsumu sees the envelope, “To Tsumu” in his twin’s ugly scrawl across the front, and rips it to pieces. He dials the number tattooed to the back of his mind over and over, each forward to voicemail chipping away at his sanity. 

“Is this a joke, ‘Samu?” he says, on his seventh try. 

Their room is just as much of a mess as usual, but it’s half as full. Atsumu sees the missing hoodie, the spot where the scarf Osamu got from Suna should’ve been.

“‘Samu, please. Osamu, pick up the phone.” Voicemail thirteen.

“At least tell me if you’re safe, you idiot!” Voicemail seventeen.

“Osamu, where did you go?” Voicemail twenty.

Too late, he scrambles for the pieces of the letter, but they slip through his fingers like glitter, settling in the fabric of his clothes. 

“Please come back.” Voicemail twenty five.

“Hi, this is Miya Osamu. I can’t come to the phone right now, but you can leave me a—”

_beep_

_beep_

_beep_

_click._

... 

Spring 25

Osamu leans against the doorframe, smiling so wide his face might split. “Hey ‘Tsumu. Long time no see.”

Atsumu freezes in place. Osamu’s jawline has filled out a little, and his hair is cropped. It’s not silver anymore, the same brown-black shade it was when they were younger. His skin is a couple shades darker than Atsumu remembers, snow-white petals glowing against his tan. Time stops, and for a couple quarter beats, nothing moves.

And then the downbeat hits, and Atsumu surges forward to wrap his brother in a half hug, half chokehold. 

“‘Samu.” 

…

_(Dear Atsumu, )_

“Where were ya?” Atsumu demands, as soon as they’re both comfortably settled in their normal spots around the kitchen island. Osamu’s already helped himself to one of the strawberries in the carton. “Do ya know how worried I was?”

Osamu laughs, and it’s a completely new kind of awful. “I’m sorry ‘bout that. I found the cheapest plane ticket I could an’ just kinda… went.”

_(If you’re reading this, then that means I’m probably flying to God knows where. I’ve got no idea what I’m doing, so you might find me home again a week later because I miss the dollar onigiri we get here. )_

“What kinda plan is that?”

“A bad one, I know, but it kinda worked out for me. Went to college abroad, got a degree in _engineering_ of all things, ended up not using it at all,” the sun bounces off his cheekbone.

_(Anyway, I’m getting sidetracked. I’m really sorry I’m doing this, ‘Tsumu, but I can’t stay here anymore. I feel like I’m choking to death living like this. )_

“I don’t understand ya at all.” Atsumu’s frowning, but he can’t keep his mouth in anything but a smile for long. “There’re plenty o’ colleges here.”

“That’s not the point, ‘Tsumu,” the nicknames come back so naturally, as if they hadn’t been rusting over for seven years. “I just kinda wanted to live my own life. You know.”

_(The other day, I wanted to go to the arcade with Sunarin and then I thought ‘oh wait, I need to practice the cello’ and then I thought ‘but why?’ And the only reason I could come up with was ‘because Atsumu would want that’. )_

“Were ya not already livin’ yer own life? I don’t get it.” 

Osamu sighs, throwing the end of another strawberry into the carton lid. “I dunno, at some point, I was just so caught up in keeping up with you that I forgot what I was even runnin’ for. Like, you had some grand ‘ol vision that I couldn’t see anymore.”

Atsumu freezes. The blood in his veins turns to ice. “Ya didn’t wanna be a cellist? Ya didn’t wanna be a musician?”

“I did, ‘Tsumu, I did.” Osamu clutches the old wound on his right finger. “I wanted it so bad, but one day my fingers were aching and my head was spinning and I realized that playing didn’t make me as happy as it used to.”

_(I sat in our room and tried to think of all the things I did because I wanted to, for myself only, and I couldn’t come up with a single one besides maybe hanging out with Sunarin. )_

“Dammit, ‘Samu, you son of a—” A fist thumps against the counter. “Ya coulda’ just _said_ so. We coulda made it work! I coulda—” 

“‘Tsumu, would ya have quit the violin for me, if I told ya this all those years ago?”

Atsumu pauses, shoulders stiffening. Music was his entire life. Music _is_ his entire life. He hasn’t lived all that long yet, and still he’s sure that there’s nothing in the world that he’d rather do. But then he thinks of being three, ten, fourteen, eighteen and he knows that if it meant getting his brother back, he would have cut off both his hands. Osamu must’ve seen it on his face, because he sits back and sighs. 

“See? Ya would’ve. An’ I didn’t want that for ya. I know how much it means to ya.”

“But still! Ya coulda stayed.”

“‘Tsumu, if I stayed, I woulda taken it back the very next day.”

_(‘Tsumu, I gotta leave. I know if I don’t make it on that plane outta here, I’m gonna turn around the next day and make like I was just kidding and lug my cello into homeroom to practice because I wouldn’t be able to say ‘I’m quitting’ and still face you. I’m a coward, I’m so sorry ‘Tsumu. I’m a coward. But I gotta do this. )_

Atsumu looks through the window, drinking in the warmth. The sky is clear, and the berries are sweet. The Osamu-shaped hole in his chest throbs, and begins to shrink, to heal. “I still think ya coulda taken at least one o’ my calls. Or left more than a letter.”

“Did ya even read my letter?” Osamu takes a peek at his face. “Thought so.”

_(One day, when I’m ready, when I’ve found something that makes me as happy as music makes you, and when I’m not scared of going my own way anymore, I’m gonna come back. I swear, I’m gonna come back. I know you’re gonna be some big shot violinist by then, too. I’ll even bring souvenirs and cook your favorite fatty tuna. )_

“I just,” Atsumu’s voice is more fragile than it’s ever been, and it’d be embarrassing if he wasn’t so happy. “I just can’t believe yer back.”

“Me too,” Osamu’s eyes are watery. “Me too.”

The flowers bloom, and the bus stop man’s daughter across the street rips the old newspaper in her hands apart, reaching for the one published today, and the world spins. The world spins.

_(Wait for me._

~~_From_ ~~

~~_Sincerely_ ~~

~~_Best_ ~~

_Love, Osamu )_

…

_Rising new star, Miya Atsumu, makes his debut as a soloist at twenty seven. As a concertmaster of the Osaka Philharmonic Orchestra for three years now, this has been a much-anticipated concert. Although from a homely background in the country, his prodigy had been noticed by an admissions officer who had previously insisted on visiting smaller, more obscure districts in search of musical talent. As we can tell by Miya’s stellar achievements, more schools should probably consider following these footsteps. Today’s program includes the famous Tchaikovsky Violin Concerto—_

The conductor, a man with a severely trimmed bowl cut and a surprising amount of pent-up rage, flourishes his baton like a sword as the orchestra blares out the final note. The audience is roaring and clapping, before Atsumu can even regain his breath. The lights are dizzying. A smattering of children scurry up to the front of the stage, propping bouquet after bouquet of flowers into his arms. The conductor gets one as well, from a very large, very stoic man and a buzzcut redhead who looks the exact opposite, mouth curling at the corners. He nods appreciatively at the stoic one and sends a glare at the redhead which would probably kill a weaker man. The recipient just laughs, and Atsumu is vaguely impressed. 

They lead him to the backstage, where he can wipe down his instrument and get ready for the reception, but then there’s a pair of eyes. One that he hadn’t expected to see here, or anywhere. 

_Thirty minutes until reception_. He loosens his bow and tucks the shoulder rest away. The cloth he uses to wipe his strings has gone missing again, and he’s sure he looks like a madman grappling for it. Atsumu pulls his suit jacket off and shakes it until a blue square of fabric falls out, gritting his teeth through the squeak of rosin against his violin. 

The announcer tells everyone to _have a wonderful rest of the night_ and already, he can hear the bustling, the voices pouring through the exits. 

_Twenty minutes until reception._

“Watch my stuff,” he calls over his shoulder at one of the flutists, who gives a mildly concerned thumbs up. The door slams open, and he skims over each exit on his side. _Maybe it was a fluke. Maybe you imagined it._ He takes the shortcut around, and checks the exits on the other side. 

_Fifteen minutes until reception_.

His hair falls across his forehead in what he’s sure is an unflattering way. He sweeps it out of his eyes with a sweaty hand as he breaks into a run, down two flights of stairs and into the main lobby. A couple people point him out and whisper, take another glance at the program. It’s getting a bit hard to breathe with the bowtie around his neck, so he loosens the ribbon, runs faster. 

There’s a back, belonging to a very tall man with inky hair. He’s walking, brisk, across the hall. In the pocket of his jacket, there’s a ticket and a small booklet. 

“—Omi, Kiyoomi! Sakusa Kiyoomi!”

When he turns around, his curls are neater than usual, brushed to one side. The moles on his forehead are on full display, darker than Atsumu remembers. 

And right there, in the middle of the room, with children running in circles around him and women in cocktail dresses brushing right up against his sides, he slips the mask on his face off. The booklet in his pocket has his name on it.

“Kiyoomi.”

He smiles.

“Atsumu.”

**Author's Note:**

> THANK YOU SO MUCH for reading through this and giving it a chance!!
> 
> First, I have to give shoutouts to my wonderful, wonderful betas who have been with me every step of the way and are probably the main reason this is even out here. [lia](https://twitter.com/kuroy4ku), [vic](https://twitter.com/babybluebells), [min](https://twitter.com/minkawaa) and many more. 
> 
> This fic was and is very close to my heart, and I'm so glad I had the chance to put it out here. I hope you enjoyed and feel free to tell me what you thought in the comments or visit me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/plumli_kl)!


End file.
